Page 62 of Big Nick Energy
‘Well done, girls,’ Beth says, walking them to the door.
As they depart, a hand falls onto my shoulder and squeezes it tightly. There’s a word for how it feels. Natural. ‘OK, wifey. My feet are like what now?’ he says, slightly offended.
‘They are awful. The way you leave your boots around and don’t pick up your socks.’
‘And what was that other thing you said?’
‘That you snored.’
‘So, essentially, I’m noisy in bed?’ he smirks.
I can’t exhale. ‘Yes, you are very noisy. It’s not good for my beauty sleep.’
‘As if you need it.’
We smile at each other for a moment too long until he puts his arm around me, his fingers grazing the skin by my neck, and I feel that. I feel it in places I shouldn’t, confused by the sudden need for physical contact until I see him waving to the girls by the door. I slide an arm around his waist and wave too. To keep up the illusion, obviously.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Isn’t it strange how at Christmas we all become big fans of light? Anything that glows and sparkles, we ooh and ahh and watch it, entranced. Big flashing snowmen sitting on the gables of a house, strands of bulbs hanging off a lamppost, garlands festooned from doorways and windows. We like it when the season literally glows. The lights are some special form of festive magic; it’s good for our souls, it helps us get our Christmas on. I look up now at the trees and I get it, those twinkling lights transport you back to being young and that sense of fascination you had with the world which seems to diminish.
‘Mulled cider, madam?’ A hand reaches out in front of me and I take the cup from Nick, the lights reflecting in the pupils of his eyes. ‘I also got us some bratwurst from a man in lederhosen.’
‘That’s one steamy sausage,’ I tell him, looking down as he attempts to juggle everything.
‘That’s what she said.’
I grin broadly. Old Nick. This season has felt as though we’ve gone through London’s greatest Christmas hits on our dates – from watchingThe Nutcrackerlast week, to Harrods to ice skating. We find ourselves in Kew Gardens tonight, enjoying the illuminations and seeing the place lit up, from toweringChristmas trees to archways and installations, sparkling in a kaleidoscope of colours.
Tonight, Nick’s wrapped up in a beanie and puffer coat, and the cold has hit his rosy cheeks. He beckons me over to a bench and hands me a sausage swathed in mustard and sauerkraut. I can’t lie. Hot wiener is an excellent idea, the temperatures have dropped considerably and I will take anything to feel a sense of warmth. I take a bite of mine and immediately wipe away at the remnants of mustard coming out the corners of my mouth to not have a repeat of the hog roast incident. But then I remember that was with the other Nick. Jesus Christ, I am mixing my meats here.That wasn’t with you.I have no feelings for the other Nick at all. Honestly. I actually can’t think about him because it almost gives me a headache. The last time we met at that school library, something had changed. There was open flirting. Possibly. It moved into innuendo and we don’t normally do that. But then as soon as our time in that school library was over, we went out into the car park, back into his truck and it was as if it never happened. And so I pushed it all away. I can’t even tell if it’s a spark. It’s almost like lighting the burner on a hob – it doesn’t spark immediately but when it does, the flame goes out again. It’s starting to become vaguely frustrating. It’s almost made me grateful for Old Nick and the comfort I get from knowing we’re into each other and can say that out loud. I glance over at him now, looking up at the lights in wonder.
‘It’s quite a thing, eh?’ he says.
‘It is. And if I forget to say anything later, I had a very cool time tonight,’ I mutter.
‘Why did you say that in an American accent?’ he asks.
‘I was trying to go allPretty Woman.’
‘Isn’t Julia Roberts a hooker in that film?’ he asks.
I stick my tongue out at him. Books and films, they’re my currency.Indulge me.There’s a way we sit next to each otherwhich is comfortable, an ease I always have with him. It’s strange how all this time later, that’s not gone away. It’s a jigsaw puzzle where the pieces will always fit.
‘The electricity bill in this place must be off the chain,’ he says, gazing up at the lights. It’s a practical stance, he’s perhaps less entranced by the magic of it all than myself.
‘They must get through a lot of bulbs too.’
‘Very true,’ he says, sipping on his warm cider. ‘How’s that wiener working for you?’
‘It’s delicious.’
He smiles and I return that smile knowingly. We have been keeping up with the idea of fun, on our dates and in bed. It is different from our university days – sex back then was scrappy, we went into it with basic knowledge from few partners and were occasionally drunk or stoned. But now, we’ve learnt things, we are a little more confident in our own skins and skills set. It’s certainly matured in a lot of ways, we’re enjoying each other, regular orgasms can only be described as fun.
‘It’s very Instagrammable, isn’t it?’ he asks. ‘People are just here for the social media filler, eh?’
We look at a family across the way in matching Christmas hats, all arranging themselves for a selfie. It’s all a perfect picture ready to show the world how happy they are until their mum takes the picture and they all part, one of the children punching the other in the stomach before running off.
‘Well, this is absolutely lovely, Nicky! Delightful! What a wonderful idea!’
